Quarrelsome Master and Pets' Stratagem
by IDespiseTragedy
Summary: A GerIta romance with light touches of humor narrated from the point of view of Germany's dog, in which the highly intelligent pets rig a post-quarrel make-up for their master and his lover by means of online surfing, Adobe Photoshop, and international phone call.


Credit: Thank you so much _Anonymous Void _for the superb beta reading

Disclaimer: Hetalia is never mine to possess, ye readers

Warnings: This fic contains Germany x Italy fluff, narrated from the point of view of Germany's exceedingly smart dog. There are also heavy references of sex without the actual smutty depictions.

Author's notes:

Polydoggery = the keeping of a number of dogs

Dogs aren't colorblind, but they see colors differently than humans do. Dogs don't seem to be able to see reds and greens very well, so their world is likely to be in shades of yellow and blue.

Enjoy your early Valentine gift, _cleartempest_!

* * *

**Quarrel and Pet Stratagem**

'_No matter how much a dog—especially a Golden Retriever like me—enjoys walking, I can't help but suspect there's something wrong with my master. I mean, hey, twice a day is plenty, but five walks within twenty-four hours … don't you agree it's too much? And, seeing that Italy hasn't paid us a visit recently, it's not that hard to guess what the cause of Master Germany's odd behavior is. After all, the last time Italy was here, some three weeks ago, master threw him out of the house with a loud slam on the door.'_

"Hey Aster," called one of my fellow dogs, Berlitz the Doberman, "Catch!"

I ignored the Frisbee tumbling on the tidily mown grass, next to my front paw. "Catch it yourself; I'm tired."

"What?! And you call yourself a Golden Retriever?" he barked incredulously, tail perking upright.

"That's right. Let's see if you can still say the same, right after walking for a more than a mile at my age."

Just then, Blackie, the short-haired German Shepherd, appeared from the corner. He looked as though his favorite bone had been stolen with his tail lowered and his ears parted way back.

"Yo, pal! What's wrong?" Berlitz greeted.

Blackie began his answer with a long whine. "Our master is at it again, you know—he has the look of a constipated man on his face."

"Oh well, with Italy's long-term absence, that's to be expected."

"I miss Italy, too," Blackie joined Berlitz's whine. "He always plays with us whenever he comes over."

"Yeah, and think of all those yummy treats he gives us," Berlitz added, licking his nose.

I gazed at the window of master's study room, but didn't see my master's tall figure. "I wonder what's wrong this time. Master and Italy quarrel quite a number of times, but they usually make up soon enough."

Blackie said, "Yeah, and the causes of their disagreements are usually just small things, like food."

"Oh, you mean, like that one time?" Berlitz commented.

###

It was one of those mornings when Veneziano slept over. Berlitz and Blackie were chasing each other's tail outside, but I was at the kitchen corner, chewing the new toy Italy brought for each of us, pets—yup, even with master's polydoggery and all that. As usual, Master Germany was having oat porridge for breakfast. He asked his lover, "Do you like sugar?"

"Uh-huh," replied Italy.

"What about cherries?"

"I like them, too."

"Raisins?"

"Yup."

"There you go." Master handed a bowl of oat porridge to Italy.

Italy winced. "Ew!"

"What's the matter? Didn't you confirm that you liked sugar, cherries, and raisins?"

"But you didn't ask whether I liked oats in the first place."

"It's not a big deal; just think of it as polenta or something!"

"I can't! Their taste is far too different; polenta is made of corns!"

'_Tut-tut, master,'_ I secretly agreed with Italy, _'Even their smells differ so much.'_

Master huffed. He always ate a light breakfast, so it'd be problematic to finish two bowls of porridge. Neither was it his nature to waste food. For one second, he seemed about to hit Italy squarely on the jaw, but when he observed Italy's nervous twitch, he merely declared, "I'll never fix you any breakfast again."

After master stomped out of the kitchen, Italy took the porridge bowl and began to dip his spoon. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and shoved the spoonful of oats into his mouth.

"Yuck!"

Droplets of tears welled up the corners of Italy's eyes, but the gastronomist swallowed the oatmeal in his mouth nevertheless. I wondered why Italy tortured himself like this, but the answer didn't present itself until some a quarter an hour later.

Again and again, Italy took another spoonful; he repeated the process until the bowl was empty even though he cringed at each gulp. Only then did he run around the house, screaming Master Germany's name. The most loyal companion of all creatures—curiosity—roused my body to follow Italy, even at the price of abandoning the chew toy in the kitchen.

Master was at his desk, reading some important-looking document with a disgruntled expression, when Italy entered the study room. The shorter nation wasted no time to show him the empty bowl. "Germany, look, I finished the oats! I really did! I didn't trash it!"

Master's stony face softened, though Italy did not suspect in the slightest that it was to his teary eyes, rather than the empty bowl, that contributed more toward master's consideration.

"I'll eat whatever you cook from now on, so please don't hate me."

Master rose to his feet and reached for the shorter nation, but Italy flinched with his eyes closed. Italy did not dare to reopen his eyes until his lover's ever-so-gentle finger brushed the corner of his mouth.

"You had some oats there," master told him.

Veneziano exhaled in relief. "Ve, I thought you were going to grab me by the collar and lift me off the ground while yelling at me not to disturb you while working."

Master looked stunned; he probably never guessed that he could frighten his beloved Italy this much. Yet, he employed no word to convince the timid nation that he meant him no harm. Instead, he licked the oat grains off his index finger with a slow, deliberate motion. As he did so, he noticed his lover's eyes dazing off at the swirling of his tongue. Italy's cheeks were imbued with a tint of scarlet, too.

Master tilted Italy's chin with the slightest pressure he could muster, giving the shorter nation a chance to brush him off. But Italy didn't. Their two faces merged into one in a long, slow kiss.

As a dog, I wouldn't know the sheer ecstasy of humans' kiss, or nations' kiss for that matter; I simply noticed how they often smiled following the performance of this so-called "kiss." All in all, that didn't mean I was insensitive about my cue to leave. Just as we dogs liked to be left alone while our mouths were engaged with food, humans liked to be left alone while their mouths were engaged with other humans' mouths.

Although master closed the door behind me, it wasn't difficult to guess what was happening inside, given the lucidity of Italy's moans for the next half an hour and the roar of the washing machine afterwards.

###

Leaving Berlitz and Blackie, I got up and walked closer to the window—master usually left the curtain open during this time of the day. The short grass felt nice under my paws, since my master had dutifully trimmed it yesterday. After positioning myself in front of the glass, I saw master's seated figure signing his diplomatic documents. Without preamble, he paused and pulled the top drawer, where he normally kept Italy's portrait. Although I could only see his back from here, I had a strong suspicion that he bore a sad expression, for he stared at the photograph for the longest of time and his shoulders drooped.

Master rose to his feet to pace the room to and fro with slapdash steps. One of his hands gripped a notepad, while his other hand ripping the sheets of paper from it one by one. On some occasions when he faced the window, I perceived his brows knitting and his mouth mumbling non-stop.

I squinted, trying my best to read my master's lip movements. After quite a while, I figured out what he was repetitively saying to himself: "He loves me still. He loves me not."

'_This is bad,'_ I thought. '_If master used a flower, he could get away with less than ten petals, but that block note looks like it still has_ _more than a hundred pages left.'_

In his isolation from Italy, master had immersed himself in a number of rituals: reading, hitting the gym, oiling every door hinge he could find, exploring music, cleaning his car repeatedly, cooking, writing, shopping, gardening … but no matter what he did, his broken heart remained irreparable. After master's separation from his soul mate, the world presented itself in the eyes of misery. Food lost their flavor, activities felt dull, and seconds became more tormenting than before. Even the omnivorous browsing among the countless volumes of the library bore no positive result.

You asked how I could confirm that these were truly what master felt? Easy. Just count the number of sighs he had every hour or so. I'd bet a bowl of dog biscuits if your count resulted in less than ten. You see, master had led a fine life before he met Italy, but now that he had found his soul mate, he could never be the same nation he used to be. To him, the world had turned into an empty shell without a certain carefree nation poking him around to nag about pasta, soccer, music, white flags, and other trivialities.

"So, how's master doing?" Berlitz, who came after me, queried.

"Need I state the obvious? It's plain to see how depressed he is," I answered, "I wish Italy would burst through the door and cling to master as he always does."

"Yeah," Blackie, who followed Berlitz, agreed, "When it comes to clinging persistency, no one beats Italy. Once, when master shooed him away, I even heard Italy insisting, 'Not until you wet me with your seed'—whatever that's supposed to be. I mean, our master is not some plant species, right?"

Berlitz and I exchanged looks, unsure of what to do with this pup. "You explain," I said.

His refusal was quick. "Nuh-huh. _You_ explain."

"Hahaha. Even at your age, there are still things that both of you have no clue of despite being much older than me." Blackie cackled.

I exchanged another glance with Berlitz before saying, "Let's … leave it at that, shall we?"

A breeze sprang up and caused the car mats to flutter on the laundry line. The lawn was wonderful to wallow in and to rub my underside against. I yawned and sought shelter under the nearest tree. "It's time for an afternoon nap."

Soon after I had drifted off into the embrace of waking dream, a vision appeared before me: master was lying on his bed with his hand brushing the linen next to him. But even I could see the bed sheet's coolness gave him no solace. Grave sorrow in his eyes, he stared at the unoccupied space. Then I heard master's voice: _"It's vexing; I want to meet you to the extent that it can't be put into words. Even in dreams, I still want to see you, Italy."_

That short dream was enough to spark me with an idea—a crazy idea maybe. But hey, we nations' pets were capable enough to star in a spy dog movie without stunts.

My buddies were excited when I confided my plan to them. Blackie even squeaked, "Oh my, I wish I get chosen for the trip. I've never been overseas before!"

Much though I hated to be a killjoy, I told the pup not to get his hopes up too high. Youthful curiosity often led Blackie astray from obeying master's commands. True, he had passed the stage of toilet training, but sometimes he couldn't resist nibbling unfamiliar objects. Berlitz, on the contrary, was a more reliable canine contest candidate by far; he was neither too young nor too old and I had nothing to criticize in regard to his obedience. Master would have definitely chosen me had this venue took place years ago, but I doubted master would risk taking me in a long journey at my current age.

Thus, the three of us waited until master went out for grocery shopping before Berlitz and I stole into the house. Blackie stood on guard outside, just in case master returned sooner than expected or Prussia had a whimsical visit. He should alert us by barking once if master came home, barking twice if a family or friend set their feet into master's yard, and barking thrice or more if it were a stranger who broke our peace.

Berlitz used his maw to grip the door handle, and then pressed it down with his strong paw. As soon as that door flung open, he slipped inside master's study room as quickly as he could. I followed at once; there was no time to waste, as master's trip could last over the stretch of three hours or end in barely twenty minutes.

I went straight for master's phonebook. One of the things I liked best from master was his tidy habit. There was no single volume of books, no single sheet of paper lay scattered; all books were arranged by subject, and then alphabetically on the shelves whereas the archives were filed in the two cabinets next to the shelves. Both the yellow pages and the handwritten phonebook, however, were on the coffee table, right next to the telephone. The soft hum of a machine informed me that Berlitz had turned on master's PC.

Page by page I flipped in quest for Italy's landline phone number. Master's handwriting was so neat and pleasing to behold, well-spaced and firmly pressured with small loops as well as crossbars that tended to be to the right of the stem of each letter "t." Notwithstanding this, I remained unable to find the one phone number I needed. Why hadn't it occurred to me before that master remembered his lover's number by heart?

Nails clattering against the hardwood floor, I dashed outside and called for Germouser. The gray tomcat cast me an irritated glance as I roused him from his slumber on a tree branch when I asked whether he knew Itabby's number, to which he remarked aloofly, "Why do you ask?"

Thus, I told him of my plan, though I was compelled to take a break halfway to hide myself behind another tree, lift a hind leg, and relieved myself—bladder seldom complemented old age well.

A part of me regretted why I had given him no part in my discussion with Blackie and Berlitz earlier. I harbor no hatred toward Germouser, mind you. Compared to how nasty cats could be from the neighboring dogs' gossips, Germouser was bearable, pleasant even, with none of the evil so many of his fellow cats shared in common. Even so, it was in dogs' nature to keep off feline involvement if we could help it.

"Are you sure we should meddle with master's affair?" The cat licked his fur, grooming himself. "Can't you not imagine master's wrath if he discovers our scheme?"

I considered that. Of all the pets in this household, Germouser resembled master most in mood and conduct; what displeased him had a high chance of displeasing master. Yet, when I recalled master's miserable state in Italy's absence, a new determination filled me up. Hence, I stated, "Then we just have to make sure he doesn't find out."

In response to the unconvinced look in Germouser's eyes, I added, "Come on, didn't you notice how pathetic master's condition has been in the last three weeks? If his mental pressure keeps building up, he may crack up and go insane." I gulped. "Or worse, he could kill himself."

For the briefest of moments, Germouser's eyes narrowed and his tail stiffened. "Dial +394122514526911415 for Veneziano's landline number, then followed by *0101* for Itabby."

"Amazing! How can you remember such long numbers?" I asked.

"Well," he replied lazily, his body relaxing, "Everyone knows that +39 is Italy's dialing code and 41 is for Venice's. The rest is the numerical conversion for 'V-e-n-e-z-i-a-n-o'—that's 22 for v, 5 for e, and so forth. The asterisk is for extension and you know how airheaded Itabby is, so 0101 is designated to be his number. I choose *879 for mine, for the record."

After thanking Germouser, I hurried back into the house. By the time I reached master's study, Berlitz had already been modifying the date of a Canine Obedience Contest which he copied from an old website. The contest had taken place two years prior and was actually intended for the local residents of Milan. Fortunately, the website was bilingual, so it still sounded convincing when Berlitz changed it into "open to all EU residents."

It was also fortunate that I managed to talk to Itabby, for he told me that his master would not be at home this weekend. "He'll rent a cottage for his sketching vacation in Menaggio, North Lombardy … meow~"

"Thanks, buddy. You're a pal," I ended our phone conversation.

As soon as I informed Berlitz the new location, his paws tapped the keyboard. He then saved the file in the jpg format and exited Photoshop.

Since the printer remained switched off, I queried, "Aren't you going to print it? We need to put that ad in the mailbox outside so that master can inspect it tomorrow morning."

"Nah," Berlitz replied, "It'd be fishy if the contest holder in Italy actually bothers to send out invitation to every house all across Europe."

My stomach lurched; why hadn't I suspected this before? "So, how are we going to get master to read it?"

Berlitz rolled his eyes. "This is the twenty-first century, Aster; it's the era for e-mails."

"You mean you know master and Italy's e-mail addresses and passwords?"

"Well, I do know the e-mails, though I haven't searched for the passwords. I could use a keylogger for that, of course, but hacking won't be necessary in this case. Instead, I'm gonna use a disposable e-mail address that sounds like a name Italy would likely to choose—something with the word 'pasta' in it—then send the ad to master's inbox. This way, master will assume that Italy, who's too afraid or too shy to use his normal e-mail, invites him with this new address in attempt to make up," Berlitz explained as he opened the Firefox browser and typed "mailinator" in the address bar.

Sure enough, when master checked his inbox before dinner, he spent a considerably long time reading one particular e-mail containing a picture attachment with bone pattern backdrop. I watched the scene unfold from the window and could guess as much that he hesitated to take the bait.

He then took out his cellphone from his pocket. Its screen displayed the photo of Italy taking him in the arm, while master himself, embarrassed by such affectionate gesture, stood still with wrinkled eyebrows. It was Japan who had taken their picture with his cellphone and then sent the file to both master and Italy. Master's finger now ghosted over Italy's smiling face, but the picture remained unchanged—offering him with a perpetually blank smile.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Master shook his head vigorously. "Why would I care so much for a boy who keeps smiling without a just cause, thinks of nothing but the ultimate gourmet experience, and specializes in sleeping in the nude?"

Such were master's grumbles, but in the end, he booked a train ticket and hotel accommodation for two nights all the same.

###

As we came out from the railway station, I still found it hard to believe that it was me, not Berlitz, whom master had selected. Nonetheless, the whiff of sweet fragrance of apples and raisins filled the air, which derived from the freshly baked _miascia_ cake from the neighboring _pasticceria_, proved that this was not a dream.

A commercial center of ancient origins, Menaggio was situated halfway along the western shore of Lake Como in Lombardy. Just as the pictures on the net indicated, the upper part of the town preserved a medieval appearance in the cobblestones climbing up between the narrow streets and houses leaning against each other. However, the heart of the old town was the harbor area that featured the wealth of nineteenth century architectural heritage in the Italian alpine style painted in muted tones, as well as shops, villas, and hotels along the tree-shaded lakeshore promenades. It was in one of these hotels that master and I were lodged, and our taxi driver was kind enough to point out some places of interest along the way.

In the lunch that followed, we dropped by at one of the terrace cafés near Piazza Garibaldi and ordered grilled _missoltini_—the freshwater fish that was the specialty of Lake Como. Afterwards, with replete stomachs, we explored the town, in which master inquired about the location of the canine contest using some simple phrases Italy had taught him.

"That address is just three blocks away, but are you sure, young man?" The elderly woman, who answered master's question, pointed northwards with one hand whilst leaning on her rollator for balance with her other hand. "True, that road has some villas with private gardens large enough for dog competitions; however, as for the park, there has never been any in that address since before I was born. To the best of my knowledge, the upcoming dog show will take place in Cremona next month instead." Although her voice sounded frail, it didn't seem that her mental state had gone too senile to register facts properly.

Just to be sure, master asked others. The next passerby—a man in his forties, who, judging by his accent, originated from a more bucolic part of northern Lombardy—didn't take nonsensical questions as kindly. Cackling, he threw master a local insult, "_Pòs tu avèch ènt una nièda dé rat in t'i scervéi e citè fora di oc_," which meant, "May you have a mouse's nest in your brain with an exit out of your eyes."

Master asked three more pedestrians after that, which included a patrolling policeman among them. Still, no matter how many times master stabbed his finger on the venue advertisement printed from his e-mail, the more the locals' statements affirmed the nonexistence of the park and the contest. Deciding visit the address regardless of all these oddities, master led me on. His grip on the print-out was getting tighter with every yard we strolled.

As expected, we faced a medium-sized residential house with no garden rather than a public park. Master rang the bell and showed the printout of the canine contest ad to the woman in white apron who opened the door. Again, the housewife told him that there had to be a mistake, for no member of her family ever hosted such an event.

"So, the sender of this email isn't Italy after all. At least, he wouldn't trick me with the advertisement of a nonexistent venue." Master heaved a sigh upon leaving the premise and patted my head the way he always did when he was downhearted. Then we headed shoreward to our hotel.

The view of the terracotta rooftops, sweeping mountain tops, and tranquil water that glittered in the sunbeams brought the prospect of a delightful lakeside promenade, and yet, I had a mission to do. As we passed a belfry, I recognized this to be the Romanesque Parish Church of Saint Stephen and knew which direction to take therefrom. Through the wonders of Google Maps, Berlitz had armed me with the topographic knowledge: Italy's lodging was located two street-turns away to the north of this church.

Since I was normally well-behaved, master had no need for gripping my rein too tightly. I imposed on this habit to liberate myself from him with a single yank and dashed toward the first street turn.

"Aster!" Master's voice hounded me down, while his footfalls, heavy against the cobblestones, pursued behind me. "Come back!"

'_I'm sorry I have to disobey you this time, master, but this is for your and Italy's sake.'_ To no avail did I keep this thought to myself, since the twinge of guilt that had been nestling at the pit of my stomach grew larger.

Our breath became more and more laborious as our steps broke into runs. Master was still chasing me, his voice rising because I had tampered with his temper. _'No matter,'_ I assured myself, _'Italy's nearby!'_

After hundreds of meters of treading, a familiar scent that approached my nose. Yapping in my eagerness, I increased my speed. I hurtled down that street even though my legs grew weary and I felt my heart threatening to escape through my throat since old age bore me down. The wind blew to against me, pushing me back and stirring my fur into wavelets. I took a grip of myself, determined that this was a chance I could not afford to miss, and willed the power to flow through my quaky limbs.

The street was dotted with villas of rare beauty, but the rarest beauty of all—at least, in our eyes—lay in a particular garden. There, I came to a panting halt, while master was still sprinting behind. Sitting beneath a verdant tree, where the streaked shadows of scalloped leaves danced on the sun-flecked grass, was Feliciano Vargas.

Although all I could see from here was Italy's backside, I recognized that figure so well, not only from his unmistakable scent, but also from the prominent side curl of his hair. Sketching on easel, he was bathed in the pleasant golden glow of the afternoon Lombard sun. Although still unfinished, the drawing, which incorporated the pre-alpine Lake Como surrounded by a crown of mountains, captured the picturesque splendor of the real thing. Who else but Veneziano possessed such artistic aptitude?

But Italy stopped drawing. He set down his charcoal pencil and picked up his other sketchbook. The page of his choosing depicted the full view of a man in sleeveless shirt and breeches, caked with sweat, dirt, and mud—just as master would look like after his regular training. Notwithstanding its austere outfit and dirt stains, master's figure radiated certain charm that … uh, how should I put it? Italy didn't enhance master's appearance or make the picture look different from master's real self in any way at all; still, it glowed with the sort of beauty that only inner eyes could see. It was obvious how much he had put his heart and soul while drawing master's figure.

Before I could inspect this picture for further detail, however, Italy scooped the book up to his bosom and embraced it tightly, murmuring, "Ludwig…"

At the sound of his name on the left, some five yards ahead, master's hands were balled into fists, while the rest of his body seemed petrified. Now that the entity that mattered most to him was here, master's entire being became filled with a silence so infrangible that he didn't seem to be breathing. Since the probability of master could find his voice to call for Italy was next to naught at this point, I called for Italy's attention, "Woof!"

Italy turned around with hitched breath and parted mouth. Wasting no time, he ran past the fenceless garden toward us. Teary as it was, joy flushed Italy's face at master's arrival. There was a smile upon his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, bliss radiating from his entire being.

It cheered my heart tremendously to meet Italy in person—I've gotten my dear friend back! My tail had even been wagging on its own accord. Oh boy, how I long to lick him! But first, I'd better make sure master didn't mind … just in case what remained of my saliva or breath on Italy's face put off master's soon-to-be reconciliatory kiss.

When I looked at master's expression, I instantly knew that the elation surging in his chest was worth at least tenfold of mine. The eyes fixated upon Italy—eyes that, until a few moments ago, had lost their luster since Italy's absence had divested them of all mirth—sprang to life once more. It was the sort of long-cherished yearning that told me in beauty no earthly creature ever equaled Feliciano Vargas. If that were not love, what could it be?

If master thought he could refrain himself from running in retrospect to Italy's side, the following minute showed him how mistaken he could be. The two of them spurred their feet, each zealous to reach the other. And when they halted in the middle of their course, in the thickness of the foliage, the place where they stood was dappled with shards of sunrays. At the sight of Italy's beam of sincere happiness, the worried expression that was master's face melded into a smile as though all the troubles had been gently wiped away from his mind.

"Germany, I missed you a lot." For a moment, Italy looked like he was about to throw his arms around master's neck, but held back at the last seconds. His head drooped and with a faint grin, he uttered, "Ve, I forgot how much you hated being hugged in public."

But master tilted his lover's chin with one hand and crushed their bodies together, pulling by the small of Italy's back. He found self-control slipping away from him and he gradually drowned in the ocean that was Italy's affection and waves that were Italy's gazes.

Italy's eyes widened in surprise, but the taller man's lips had already been upon his before he could breathe a word. To be honest, the view from here wasn't all that clear, thanks to master's towering height, but I had the feeling that Italy's eyes fluttered before closing in contentment as he responded to his lover's kiss.

"Italy, you can be so annoying sometimes, but I can't go on without you…" Lips barely apart from his lover's, master spoke with difficulty the words that betrayed his pride, "…don't leave me." With that, he pulled the shorter man in an embrace as if to hold Italy forever in the shelter of his arms.

FINE

* * *

OMAKE

I made no attempt to follow master and Italy as I watched them go into the villa. The full-length, sliding windows revealed the villa interior. It was furnished throughout and comprised a cozy open plan lounge and dining room and a modern-fitted kitchen. Even the doors to the bedrooms looked stylish enough.

Deciding that my licks for Italy could wait, I lay my aged body on the grass and basked in the panoramic view this villa offered. It wasn't until I spent hours observing the ferries come and go in Lake Como that the rich, mouth-watering aroma of Italy's cooking wafted through the wall chinks. Hunger visited me without delay, bringing with it thoughts of how pleasant such meat would be when it was inside my belly. But as master's oldest and most well-behaved dog, I suppressed the urge to whine and scratch at the door.

By the time the reconciled couple emerged from the villa, afternoon has given way to sunset, and the darkening sky denoted that everything would fall prey to night soon. Master and his lover were walking—nah, scratch that—they were _limping_ with a bowl of freshly baked _ossobucco_ in master's left hand, his right twined with Italy's. If I had to guess, they'd had their second (if not third) round in the kitchen, while the meat had been in the oven.

How could I be so sure that they had made up _and_ made out, you ask? For one thing, their lower parts smelled funny. Hey, although my neat-freak master had cleansed himself and possibly his lover, too, it didn't stop a dog's sense of smell from tracing what sort of "sport" they had exercised earlier. Then, there were also those glances; y' know, the "I won't trade you for all the glories in the world" type.

"Aster," master spoke as I began to chew the veal shank, "I'm going back to the hotel to pick our belongings. Be a good dog and wait for my return with Italy. We'll be spending the rest of our holiday here."

Master had just walked a few steps when Italy's voice rang in the air, "Wait, Germany, don't I … get a kiss?"

In spite of the stiffening of his entire body, master turned around to approach Italy, his robotic strides in contrast to the gentleness of his eyes. He gave his lover a quick peck on the forehead and whispered, "I'll be here as soon as I can."

A smile on his face, Italy waved his lover goodbye. Then, after he was sure master was well out of earshot, he squatted next to me and said, "Hey, hey, Aster, guess what," but without allowing me the slightest time to reply, he babbled on, "Germany wondered why was it that, with the naked me crawling onto his bed at almost any given chance, the word 'seduction' still held its meaning. He tried to insist…" Italy paused briefly, and when he resumed speaking, he strained to deepen his timber—a poor imitation of master's voice, 'I ought to be immune of this … this … thing.'" Then Italy carried on in his usual voice, "So I asked Germany what thing it was and he grudgingly answered, 'The power of seduction that you hold!'"

At this point, Italy's face was convulsed with laughter. "Hahaha … Aster, can you believe that? That tough, serious Germany said those words." Italy giggled for nearly half a minute before continuing with his story, "When I asked Germany, 'Ve, you want to be immune of me?' he seemed to be embarrassed and grunted—" again, Italy did an unconvincing impersonation of master's voice "—'Forget it!' After that, Germany bent, and loomed over me and…" Italy's voice trailed off into a contented sigh and his cheeks suffused with a telltale blush.

I had a fair guess of what had happened next without him telling it, though: master claimed his lover with the tacit embrace of his strong arms and the canopy of his shadow before their two figures sank to bed.

Having finished the last bite of my meal, I lay my head on Italy's lap and let him scratch my ear. _'At this rate, that Italy-resistant wish wouldn't come true even in another 10,000 years, but not that master would really mind.'_

ENDE


End file.
